


Codas

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e02 Wendigo, Episode: s01e04 Phantom Traveler, Episode: s01e06 Skin, Episode: s01e12 Faith, Episode: s02e13 Houses of the Holy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writing eventually wincest codas along with my rewatch of the early seasons of Supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.01: Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> These might not come out in order, and I'm not doing every episode, but I'm going to do a bunch hopefully. I just need more brothertouching, all right?!

Sam holds it together, he does. He holds it together as they watch the firemen spray the remains of his apartment building, and while they checked their weapons and supplies and while they drove away, the blaze only visible as a glow in the rearview mirror and a hard mask on Sam’s face.

Dean watches him.

It’s something he’s spent a lot of his life doing, watching Sam. Even before the first fire, he remembers being fascinated by this tiny life, this being, completely helpless but able to take Dean’s whole consciousness and focus it on his wide eyes.

Then came the fire.

Suddenly it was _watch out for Sammy_ , but what Dad didn’t understand was that he didn’t _have_ to tell Dean that. He’d watch Sammy no matter what, through anything.

It’s been three years since he’s spoken to his brother, before this weekend. 

Three years of secret almost-visits, of any excuse to come within two hundred miles, of hacking the Stanford databases to make sure he’s got Sam’s address, just in case.

He’s mostly kept his promise. There’ve only been a few times he’s broken, that he’s felt that visceral burning need to see his brother.

Even then, he hasn’t gotten too close.

It’s been three years of drive-bys, of stakeouts, of treating Sam like beloved _prey_ , and now he’s sitting inches away and feeling Sam’s hurt and his need and his _pain_ like a knife to the gut, and Dean can barely stand it.

So he drives on, away from Jessica and fire and college and all the things that put that burning, dangerous, _desperate_ glow in Sam’s eyes. He drives and he drives and he drives until all they can feel is the pavement beneath the wheels and the sunlight breaking over the horizon, and finally, _finally_ , Sam’s eyes flutter, drifting shut, and he slumps against the window.

Because Dean? He knows Sam. He knows him better than he knows himself. And he knows that the only thing that can help right now is watching. Watching Sam, like he always has.

Watching him, and waiting to see what Sammy needs.

It’s been his job for twenty-two years, and right now, there’s nothing else.


	2. 1.02: Wendigo

They've been running so fast lately that Dean's not sure he remembers how to sit still.

Between their frantic hunt for the woman in white, to Stanford and flames and Jess, to following Dad's trail out to the edge of the wilderness, then deep inside, the closest Dean and his brother have been to simultaneously awake and motionless is in the Impala. And even then, despite her four walls and roof, they're still running.

So in the tent, in the middle of the woods, ten miles from anyone or anything besides two scared kids, a dickbag guide, and something lurking in the dark, they lie in silence.

The tent is old, ragged around the edges like everything they own that's not a weapon, and isn't that just a metaphor for their lives. It's the same tent they'd slept in together as kids, John in his own tent, or standing guard, on a hunt or on a bender.

It's small, cramped, and Dean's side is pressed against Sam's tightly. If he closes his eyes and breathes in, listening to Sam's slow breaths, it's almost as if he's twelve again. Maybe John's just around the corner now, too, just like he'd been all those times. Maybe in the morning Dean'll be awakened by the sound of a zipper and a slap to the ankle, or a gruff voice muttering his name.

Beside him Sam shifts, just the smallest motion, but they're close enough that it reverberates through Dean's body as well, and he shuffles further towards the wall, trying to give Sam's long limbs more room.

He's been doing a lot of that, lately. They never used to have this space between them, these millimeters that prove they're separate, that they're independent, that Sam pulled away and Dean couldn't follow. 

But this time is different. The movement happens again, then again, and Dean's body rolls on its side and his arms come up against his will and wrap around Sam, whose body trembles and his muscles cord.

"Shhh," Dean whispers, pulling him in until they're pressed together. "I got you."

Sam shudders, fingers twisting in Dean's jacket, and presses his face into Dean's shoulder. His sobs shake them both, resonating through both bodies as one, and Dean rocks into the motion and strokes a hand through his brother's hair.

It's all he can do for Sam. It's the best he has. He's not great at talking about this stuff, never has been. But Sam's been carrying grief and guilt and rage and if Dean can help him let it out, well–

(He ignores the tiny voice inside him that whispers _Sammy still needs me_ )

He holds his brother tight as Sam's sobs turn to snores, arms warm and secure, until the morning light glints through the tent's thin cloth.


	3. 1.04: Phantom Traveler

 

It’s amazing how he can know Dean his whole life, spend most of 18 years less than ten feet apart, and still not know about something as basic as Dean’s terror of flying.

Sam watches his brother buckle his seatbelt with trembling fingers, even as Dean jokes with Amanda and the other stewardess. He’s shaken still, pale around the cheekbones (though only someone who knows his face the way Sam does would be able to tell). As Amanda moves on, checking on the other passengers, Dean lets out a long, shaky breath.

“Hey,” says Sam quietly, leaning in to be heard above the din of conversation and the hum of the plane. “We did it. We’re safe.”

Dean snorts. “Still in a freakin’ plane, though.” He shakes his head. “Stupid fucking way to travel.” There’s a sprinkling of gasps and screams as plane dips suddenly, then rights itself, and Dean’s hands clench as his eyes go wide.

Sam can't help a snort. "Dean, we just fought a _demon._ I still can't believe that _this_ is what scares you."

"Demons I can handle. Hurtling through the sky in a metal tube? Yeah, no."

Sam shakes his head and digs in his pocket, raising the center armrest and holding out an earbud. Dean takes it, brows raised. "You know my Walkman got crushed, right? It's not playing anything."

"It's my iPod." He sets the offending device on his knee.

"Huh." Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Dean puts the earbud in his ear. His brows raise. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's the best you're gonna get, Dean." Sam smirks. "It's music from his century. It's good for you."

Dean crosses his arms and settles back, leaning closer and shutting his eyes as Sam puts in his own earbud. After a moment, he cracks one eyelid to glare at Sam. "Your music sucks, dude."

Sam can't help the grin that spreads over his face. They're alive, they're relatively safe, and his brother's shoulder is warm against his own.

There's movement beside him and he turns his head, nose brushing Dean's hair, and he smiles. Dean's nodding along to the music, just a little, anxiety draining from his face.

Sam leans closer and closes his eyes for the rest of the flight.


	4. 1.06: Skin

“Hey, Dean?”

They’re in a motel room, St. Louis three hundred miles back in the rear view mirror. They drove for hours, after a faked death and an awkward goodbye and a stream of painful thoughts Sam’s been trying to push back down. But Sam’s never been one who can hold things in, not really. Not when they’re weighing on his mind like this.

He knows Dean’s not asleep. He can hear him breathing, can sense his attention.

It’s always like this, a little bit, whenever one of them is captured or held or hurt. There’s a rhythm to their lives, a pattern, and when they come back together it’s tense and filled with– _something._

“Yeah?” says Dean quietly, voice gritty with exhaustion.

Sam clears his throat, staring at the ceiling, shifting awkwardly. “Remember, uh, what I said? About the shifter?”

There’s a rustle from the other bed, and out of the corner of his eye Sam sees Dean, rolled up on his side and squinting through the darkness. “What part?”

“The, um, the part about him reading your mind.”

“That mind meld shit?” He huffs. “Man, you know better than to buy that crap, Sammy.”

“Dean–” Sam can’t look him in the eye, even in this mostly-darkness. He shuts them instead. “I just–” He stops, throat suddenly tight. “It wasn’t fair, Dean.”

Dean sighs and Sam hears a rustle of cloth and the creak of a mattress. “ _What_ wasn’t fair.” His voice is flat, guarded, and much closer than before, nearly above Sam, and he figures Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning across the gap towards Sam.

“Everything.” Sam sits up, turning towards his brother, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor between his knees. “You. Having to take care of me. Getting stuck in this life.” He sighs. “All of it.”

Warm hands drop onto his shoulders. “Sam.” Dean’s voice is serious, more serious than Sam’s heard it pretty much ever. “Sammy, taking care of you–” Dean shakes his head, and Sam can’t help noticing his brother’s eyes, glistening in the darkness– “It’s the best thing I got, okay? It’s– yeah, it’s my job, but– it’s more than that, dude. You know that.” He sighs, close enough that Sam feels his warm breath on his face. “And yeah, maybe I woulda liked to do the college thing someday, maybe. Or get a garage, work on cars, you know? Something like that.” His hands slide up until they cup Sam’s cheeks, forcing him to meet Dean’s eyes. “But if I lost this?” He shakes his head, voice gruff. “Ain’t worth it.”

The moment draws out just a little too long, gazes locked, breath loud in the silent room, before Dean cleans his throat. “Get some sleep.” He pats Sam’s cheek firmly, then musses his hair. “Big day tomorrow.” He flops back on the bed.

Sam leans back slowly, snuggling back under the blankets. He falls asleep to the sound of his brother’s slow, steady breaths.


	5. 1.12: Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tasha for the beta!

_“You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?”_

_“I’m not gonna let you die, period._ ”

\-----

Sam’s hands are warm against him, and Dean can’t help but lean into his brother as Sam helps him to a chair. Dean is cold, so cold.

He’s never felt like this before.

Sure, he’s been hurt on hunts. He’s broken bones, twisted joints, even came down with pneumonia once after a particularly cold, wet hunt. But even the dragging fatigue and deep, hacking cough that that brought on wasn’t anything like this.

He feels _wrong_ , broken in some deep way he can’t quite express. He knew the score before the doctors even told him his condition: he wasn’t gonna make it out of this one.

But _Sam._ Sam with his sad, longing gaze and clenched jaw, determination in every line of his long frame? He calls in every favor, reaches out to every contact twenty years’ hunting has accumulated for them– Sam can’t give in, not ever. Not to anything.

Dean watches him as he gestures, explaining all the calls he’s made and all the research he’s done. He’s drifting a little as he sits there, lulled by his own faulty heartbeat, weak and stuttering where once it had been strong. Sam’s voice washes over him and suddenly he’s so very, very tired.

“Hey, Sam?” he manages to say, feeling himself shake with the effort of staying upright and hating himself for it.

Sam stops in the middle of a sentence and rushes forward, catching Dean by the biceps and steadying him. “Dean!”

“‘m tired, Sammy.” He slurs the words, fading in and out of awareness as the room bucks around the axis of Sam’s wide eyes. “Can you tell me in the morning?”

There must be something in his voice, something that scares Sam even more than the tests and the doctors, because he nods, tossing his notes aside, and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist. He hoists him up, almost carrying him to a bed, pulling back the blankets and setting him down gently, carefully, like he’s made of glass.

He doesn’t remember lying down, or closing his eyes, or the light clicking off. But he wakes up a few hours later, or at least thinks maybe he does, to a hazy sort of consciousness. He’s warm for the first time in days, a trembling weight on his shoulder. It takes a moment for him to resolve the soft noises into sobs and to open his eyes enough to see Sam’s head pressed to the crook of his neck from where he’s kneeling beside the bed.

“Sam?” he whispers, and Sam’s head flies up, body tipping backwards as he starts to scramble away. But Dean grabs his wrist, stopping him, and tugs him closer. “C’mere.”

Sam hesitates, eyes flicking to Dean’s, then away. 

“Seriously, dude.” Dean can feel himself drifting back down into sleep, and he doesn’t fight it, but just before he goes under the mattress shifts and a soft head of hair rests over his heart.

He’ll deny it till he’s blue if the face, but in that moment he can’t help turning his head to press his lips to his brother’s hair and wrap both arms around him. He drifts off, holding him tightly until he can’t tell where he ends and Sam begins.


	6. 2.13: Houses of the Holy

_“When I think about my destiny, when I think about how I could end up...”_

_“Yeah, well, don't worry about that. All right? I'm watching out for you.”_

_“Yeah, I know you are. But you're just one person, Dean. And I needed to think that there was something else, watching too, you know? Some higher power. Some greater good. And that maybe...”_

_“Maybe what?”_

_“Maybe I could be saved.”_

\---

Dean can’t sleep.

Maybe it’s the tears in Sam’s eyes. Or maybe it’s the desperation on his face, the heartbreak of lost faith. Maybe it’s the glimmer of hope, just barely there, when he tried to believe that this wasn’t all the delusions of a rogue spirit.

Maybe it’s even Dean’s own fractured faith, rising up from some deep place inside him to whisper at the edges of his mind.

Whatever it is, it’s something he’s pretty sure not even the vibrations of the Magic Fingers can fix.

So he’s sitting in the dark, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back against the headboard of Sam’s bed. His brother’s mussed head is pressed to the side of Dean’s thigh and Sam’s breaths are slow, even, finally without the shuddery, shaky quality of the last few hours.

_“I do pray. Every day. I have for a long time.”_

Dean looks down, taking in the shape of Sam’s body against the mattress. 

Sometimes he forgets that Sam’s an adult. Sometimes he looks into those big hazel eyes and all he can see is his tiny shadow, his charge, the one person whose life is in his hands and his alone. Nobody else is gonna watch out for Sammy, not like he can.

Sam shifts, restless, and Dean drops a hand down and brushes it across Sam’s hair, pushing it off his face.

There’s something soothing about being here, warm and together in the darkness. The smell of cheap mattress and dusty air is the same as the thousands of motel rooms they stayed in with Dad, curled in a bed together even when Dad was out. After Stanford they’d gotten rooms of their own, spread out over two beds, but even then Dean slept on the edge nearest Sam, arm dangling towards his brother. 

He _knows_ Sam. Knows him almost better than he knows himself, or so he’d thought. They’d always been a team, at least for the big things. Yeah, they’d clashed over stuff, but any brothers did. Sam leaving for Stanford had hurt, but it had made _sense._ Sam had always wanted more than their life could give him.

But to discover something like this, something so fundamental, so _important_ to Sam that Dean hadn’t known?

_“I do pray. Every day. I have for a long time.”_

Dean’s hand strokes over the soft strands of Sam’s hair, fingers careful and gentle. _Not gonna let anything happen to you_ , he thinks. _Not ever._

 _And if God’s up there, or angels, or whoever?_ Dean shifts a little, sliding down until he’s laying flat and Sam’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. _If they want to help, let ‘em._ He tightens his arm around Sam’s shoulder and presses a kiss to his hair. _But we don’t need them._

_Sam doesn’t need them._

Sam curls closer, throwing a leg over Dean’s and burying his face in Dean’s shoulder.

_I don’t need them._


End file.
